Action is Eloquence
by Imogen74
Summary: The Holmes brothers believe that they have one another all figured out. When they are told otherwise, a wager ensues, and Molly Hooper is caught in the middle. T for now. Mollcroft...some Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

Action is eloquence

The symphony was a place Mycroft enjoyed. Sometimes.

Yet he sat there, listening to Mozart, and he couldn't fathom what he was doing there. He shifted in his seat, and wondered what he was going to do to get himself out of this situation.

Mycroft had only agreed to such idiocy when he could be doing other things because his brother asked him to keep this ludicrous man whom he was with occupied. He needed to start to tell his brother no. Sherlock would need to find other people to do his babysitting, case or no.

The musicians ceased their play, they all stood and bowed, and the man to Mycroft Holmes's left rose and applauded. Well, they weren't good as all _that_. But he rose as well, and smiled a touch at the symphony players.

He and his companion left the hall, and Mycroft walked toward his large, black car. "Well, Mr. Danvers," he began.

"Paul," supplied Mr. Danvers.

Mycroft nodded. "Paul. I was very happy that we were able to do this. Sherlock was unfortunate in his missing this opportunity."

"Indeed," and Paul smirked.

Mycroft looked at him crookedly. "Yes, well…" and he got into the car.

"I'd be happy to have a repeat performance," Paul began. "Or anything else you might fancy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well…that is to say…"

"Are you suggesting that this was a date?" Mycroft sniggered and looked at him incredulously. "My dear Mr. Danvers, if that is the case, you are very much mistaken. It is my brother you are thinking of…" and he lowered himself into the car.

"Sherlock isn't gay," observed Paul, the now jilted date.

"Isn't he? Well, since _you _say so, it must be true," and he closed the door. "Baker Street," he barked at his driver. Whatever Sherlock was up to, he needed to put a stop to it immediately.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was mucking about in his kitchen. He had a time trying to locate things now that John was gone. No matter…he would have it all deciphered soon enough. If only soon enough would happen already. It had been nearly a year.<p>

He heard the front door close and the familiar footfalls of his brother.

Wonderful. He was likely cross that he had set him up on a date that Mycroft didn't know he was on.

It was just a laugh.

That, and his brother was lonesome.

"Hello, Mycroft," and he looked at him. "You look out of sorts."

Mycroft twirled his umbrella and sat on the chair. "Now, why would you think that, Sherlock? Could it be that you set me up on a date without telling me?"

"You need to get out more."

"How can you presume to know what I need?"

"By virtue of my observational acumen," and Sherlock sat down.

Mycroft smirked. "Oh yes, of course. Sherlock, if your 'observational acumen' is as polished as you seem to think it is, why would you have set me up with another man?"

"Well, I should think that obvious."

"You mean to say that you think that I am homosexual."

"That's right."

Mycroft laughed. "Sherlock, how long have you known me?"

"Well, as I am currently thirty eight years old, and you are…however old you are…thirty eight years is a safe estimate."

"Precisely. And yet you believe me to be homosexual."

Sherlock looked at him crookedly. "Well, you are."

"I am not."

"You are."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother and shook his head.

Sherlock stood. "How can this be? Obviously you are gay. Look at you!"

"I rather think that you are imposing your own tendencies on me, Sherlock. It's a mistake most people with a pedestrian understanding make."

This was not to be born. "Are you saying that you think that I am gay."

"Come, man. What do you call all that business with John Watson?"

"We were friends," and he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

"Oh, of course," sarcasm was dripping with every word.

"Mycroft, you don't do sarcasm well, I suggest you abandon it," he called from the kitchen.

"I shall do no such thing. I shall not abandon that which affords me pleasure."

"Which is why I sent you to the symphony with Paul," and he retuned, two cups in hand.

"And very thoughtful, brother, except I am not gay," he sipped his tea.

"You are a ridiculous person, Mycroft. I don't care if you are gay."

"Nor do I care that you are," and he sat back, set his tea down, and smiled.

Sherlock looked at him. "What do you say…" he began. "To a wager…"

"Wager?"

"That's right. To prove that I am not gay, I shall date a woman. And since you are homosexual, you will find yourself a strapping man."

Mycroft sighed. "This is ridiculous, even for you, Sherlock."

"Why is it? Nervous?"

"Hardly," he laughed. "But since I am not gay, shall I find a woman to date as well?"

"There you have it," and he nodded and sipped his tea.

"Have you any idea what to _do_ with a woman, Sherlock?"

"Have you, Mycroft?"

"Touche," he replied. "It has been a while, I suppose. But not so long as to forget altogether."

"Never is quite a long while, brother."

"But my concern stands. Have you ever dated a woman…?"

"I have."

"When not involved with a case?"

Ah. Well…not so much, no. "That is immaterial."

"Well, you've answered my question," and he stood. "How will I prove my successful completion of this date?"

"Photos? Since you won't be enjoying success," Sherlock added in a whisper.

"That, brother, is creepy and odd…no…something else…"

"Mmm…can't think of anything that cannot be falsified."

"Photos can be falsified, Sherlock," Mycroft swung his coat over his shoulders.

"Well, have at it, Mycroft and we will come up with some sort of proof."

Mycroft smiled at his brother. "Prepare to lose, brother mine."

"I never lose," he returned, and the elder Holmes left 221B in a swoop.

Well, this should be interesting. Mycroft really ought to just admit that he is gay and save everyone the trouble. But he does enjoy being stubborn, so he didn't reckon that there would be any cause for him to be forthright.

His loss.

And Sherlock could be complacent when he won, which would be reward in itself.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Sorry about the delay! I hit a block. Thanks to Amythe3lder for helping out!_

* * *

><p>It was preposterous in the extreme that he should be bothered at all with his brother's silly assumptions. Not that he was <em>bothered<em> in the traditional sense of being bothered, but he was irked.

Mycroft walked into his flat with these thoughts and smiled. He would need to obtain a date. That, too, was odd. How long had it been since he had had a proper date…? Mycroft looked up to his ceiling and considered. He took off his impressive overcoat and sat with his phone.

"James? Hello, yes, its Mr. Holmes. When was the last time your people saw to my ceilings? I daresay a year's worth of dust is up there," and he hung up.

…how long how long…? Since uni, perhaps? No, surely not that long. He went through his life from uni to this point…there had been a few ladies, but a serious date? Well, that diplomat from France, she was someone he had romanced…Sophie, was it? Gabrielle? Some common enough French name.

Mycroft thought of the ladies among his acquaintance. There was Anthea…so young, though. He believed she was otherwise engaged, anyway. She was often seen preparing herself for what could only be a date after work.

Who else? No one on Parliament would be acceptable. To date one of them…inadvisable.

Mycroft rose and went to his window overlooking London's bustling streets.

He thought more pointedly, but no one came to mind. He _could _go to a pub and try to meet someone. He considered it. Yes, that's likely what he would need to do.

* * *

><p>The pack of cigarettes were sitting on the table next to his laptop. Chiding, ridiculous things…he would not cave (he wasn't even certain why he continued to have them in his possession). Sherlock stood, ignoring nicotine's seductive call, and picked up his violin. Whom should he ask out on a date?<p>

There was Janine. Though admittedly, he had rather mucked things up with her.

The Woman…but it would be tiresome to attempt to find her. God knows where she was (though she wouldn't be that difficult to find, he'd rather not waste his time in such pursuits, not when there was a brother to be bested).

Molly Hooper…and he considered. Sherlock walked into the kitchen to make some tea. He cared about Molly, and he knew that she cared about him (bit too much, actually). He believed that his care would never grow beyond the superficial, that is, her general well-being. No…Molly was pure, not to be touched. He had done enough damage where she was concerned. Besides, John would have a fit if he asked Molly out.

Sherlock poured the tea and opened his laptop. He began searching dating sites.

What were these morons on about? _This _was the dating pool? No wonder the human race was in grave peril…those reproducing had the intelligence of a dust mite. His face contorted as he read further on.

No…this wouldn't do.

A pub it is.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes had very discerning taste. He liked this as he did, just so. When selecting a pub to discover the lady he would be asking out on a date, he was careful to make certain that it held a bit of anonymity, was classy nonetheless, and had an outside area wherein he might be able to smoke should the need arise. Central London would do, as he thought it appropriate for any traveling he or his future companion might need to make.<p>

"Harp" in Covent Garden was selected, and Mycroft was pleased. It had favorable reviews to boast, and was not pronounced in its proximity to anything of importance.

He walked in, umbrella in hand, and sat at the bar.

"What'll it be?" asked the keep.

"What have you on tap?"

The keep went through the beer on draft, and Mycroft decided on a whiskey on the rocks. So much for a night out full of novel adventure.

Mycroft sipped his drink and looked about. The place wasn't terribly dim for a pub, and there was loads of dark wood. Mycroft stood and went over to a booth in the back. He sat and decided to people watch for a spell…

…in walked Sherlock. This would be interesting.

His younger brother went to the bar and spoke with the tender, looked around, spotted Mycroft almost immediately, and rolled his eyes. After obtaining his drink, he went over to the booth.

"Well, brother. Fancy seeing you here," he said, sitting opposite him.

"Place must be going to the dogs…the clientele it now attracts," Mycroft responded with a smirk and a sip.

Sherlock chuckled. "Any interesting prospects?"

"None at all. But it is early still. Most aren't quite done with the workday yet," he paused. "But a workday might not be something you are familiar with. Allow me to explain, one gets up in the morning, usually seven, perhaps a touch later or earlier depending on one's commute and where one needs to be…"

"Shut up Mycroft. _My_ workday never ends, since criminals do not sleep, when I am on a case, neither do I."

"Rubbish. Of course they sleep. What are you on about?" he sipped his whiskey.

Sherlock, undeterred, persisted. "Criminals have networks, as you are well aware, and said networks are constantly in operation. Therefore, if one is to effectively catch a criminal, one must keep their hours."

Mycroft smirked at his brother's insistent manner, then spotted a lovely woman enter the pub, unattended. "There you are, Sherlock. Why not have a go at her?"

He turned to the entrance to see whom his brother was referring to. She was a lovely woman, early to mid thirties, long, auburn hair…smartly dressed. Some sort of barrister he surmised, by the look of her briefcase and the style of dress she wore. "Hm. I suppose it couldn't hurt to have a trial run," and he adjusted his Belstaff, ruffled his hair, and rose to his feet. "Watch and learn, brother mine," he said with a wink.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose as he received Sherlock's wink, but fell into a smile as he watched him speak with the lady…

The lady, Mycroft observed, was happy to accept Sherlock's smile and presence. And it appeared he offered to purchase a drink for her, which she readily accepted, too. She was all smiles as they sat at the bar, and seemed engaged enough in conversation. She touched her hair, laughed, even blushed once or twice…

But then Mycroft watched as her face suddenly seemed less warm and eager…her eyes narrowed a touch. Her lips began to thin as she listened to Sherlock. Finally, after a few minutes thus, she took her drink and threw it in his face.

Ah. He wasn't surprised.

The lady left and Mycroft smiled as the keep handed Sherlock a towel to dry himself with. The younger Holmes left the bar and returned to the booth where his brother sat, smiling widely.

"Well, that was marvelous. I learned that lovely, unassuming professional women dislike being deduced at pubs, and will react accordingly should anyone discover that they are engaged and their own fiancee is having an affair," he downed his whiskey. "Am I close?"

"Spot on," muttered Sherlock.

"Well…take heart, Sherlock. You really ought to learn that simply because you _can_ read people with ease, doesn't mean that you should _tell them_ such. Really…you are a bit old to still be learning this lesson."

Sherlock sat back in the booth. "You have learned this, Mycroft? This is your age and wisdom speaking?"

"Indeed it is. What else?"

"If you are so adept at understanding people, why are you still alone?"

He smirked. "_Because_ I understand people."

And Sherlock grinned. "Let's see you," and he turned, surveying the available pool of victims. "Ah, there. Over there, at the end of the bar. Lovely woman, probably forty. _She_ appears to be a fine specimen," and he turned to Mycroft. "Well, have at it."

"Challenge accepted," he stood and left Sherlock at the booth.

Sherlock switched to Mycroft's side to get a view of the goings on without having to crane his neck…

This lady, with short, black hair and a pale face, looked to be a bit despondent. Perfect for Mycroft, thought he. She was dressed in back, appeared to be a writer, or a PA or something. She didn't receive Mycroft well at first, seemed a bit taken aback; but she softened as he sat next to her, and she accepted his offer of drink.

Mycroft was doing much of the talking, the lady nodding a lot…Sherlock believed that this didn't bode well for his brother, he disliked being the one who spoke all the time. But on he went, and the lady nodded, smiled when appropriate, but appeared to want to be left alone. Finally, he watched as she shook her head no, as Mycroft's face fell a touch, and she got up to leave.

Well. That wasn't a disaster, but it didn't look like it went terribly well.

Mycroft returned to the table.

"And…?"

He sat down. "Not interested."

"Why ever not?" though he appeared to be moderately pleased.

"Because she is homosexual. And, she added, quite tired."

"Ah. That does pose a problem," Sherlock got up and went to the bar for two more drinks. He returned and slid in the booth. "You know, Mycroft, dating, I imagine, is much more difficult than I expected it to be. And that doesn't happen often."

"Yes," Mycroft sat back. "Many variables and such to consider. I suppose…it might be easier to simply ask someone we already know."

"But who?"

"No idea," he whispered, taking a long gulp of whiskey. "At any rate, Sherlock, I think it's about time for me to head home. Will you stay and observe the masses attempt to mate?"

He shrugged his answer as Mycroft got up.

"Well, do let me know if you've found success," and he left.

Confounding problem. A date. Sherlock's mind raced…who to ask who to ask…this really shouldn't be as difficult as he was making it out to be.

He'd ask John's opinion on the matter. He pretended to know women fairly well…perhaps he might offer some insight into this ridiculous predicament he found himself in.

And he stood, shoved his hands into his pockets, and left the pub for London's night.


	3. Chapter 3

Let it not be said that Sherlock Holmes is not amenable. In fact, he is. Quite. But only when that which he seeks is in complete alignment with what his mind tells him is fact.

He thought it an excellent opportunity to ask John Watson his advice on dating opportunities. He certainly had dated enough.

Whether he was successful or not in that endeavor remained to be seen…Mary Watson _wa__s_ an assassin, though only incidentally so.

It mattered but little, he required some insight, and John was likely the only person save Mycroft he would bother with at all…and since Mycroft was by reason not available for consult, John it was.

"Sherlock?" he heard his very best friend's voice in the doorway.

"Ah, John. Do come in," and he gestured for John to take a seat, but only after he handed him a cuppa.

"What's…going on?" and the good doctor eyed the cup with some uncertainty.

"I require some advice, and since you are the only person whom I know who could offer some on this most tedious of subjects, I asked you here today," Sherlock sat and smiled at his friend.

"Me?" he was dubious, to say the least.

"That's right," and he sipped.

"But…how can I…what do I know…?"

Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh and stood in annoyance. "Since your powers of observation have improved slightly during our acquaintance, I'm certain that it hasn't escaped your notice that you have replied to every single one of my statements with a question. Surely you can appreciate how annoying that is for me, I answer too may questions as it is, mostly for morons who don't understand my answers."

"You are a git," and he set his tea down.

Sherlock laughed and sat down again. "I need you to enthrall me with your acumen, John. Truly, I am in a fix."

"Jesus. Whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing is wrong! But Mycroft…"

"Oh, no," John said standing. "No no no. I am not getting involved with anything that Mycroft is concerned with," his hands gesticulating.

"Sit down man, and allow me to explain," he eyes held John's, and he obliged.

"Good. Now, Mycroft and I have this bet, you see. He believes, rather erroneously, that I am homosexual…"

"Well," and John giggled.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, that is…not too far fetched, is it?"

"Why is that?"

"I mean…you haven't been known to court many women recreationally. Have sex…that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing is that, John? When I engage in lascivious acts, ludicrous lies, all in an effort to chase an orgasm…_that_ will prove me to be heterosexual?"

"No," John said. "It'll prove you to be a human being. But god, you do like to make it ugly, don't you? Love isn't like that, you know. I mean…of course you know," he paused, looking at him deliberately. He then pointed at the detective. "You think you're untouchable, but you are the most sentimental…"

"Retract that immediately."

_"__The most sentimental_ bugger I've ever laid eyes on."

"Humph," retorted he, and stood with his arms rather tightly crossed around his chest.

There was a very loud silence which followed.

John was standing, but decided to take his seat. "Well? Are you going to finish your story, or are you going to pout?"

"Two _more_ questions, John."

"Alright, I'm done," and he went to leave.

"Please stay."

"Excuse me?"

"Stay…I'll…"

"Behave yourself?"

Sherlock went over to his regular chair and sat down. "You're no fun."

John sighed and sat opposite the detective.

Sherlock took a very deep breath and said, "I need dating advice."

No answer.

He clapped his hands together. "I need dating advice, since the pub scene is…well…less than opportune."

"You went to a pub to look for a date?'

"So?"

And then the laughter began. "Oh! Sherlock! Next time…_please_ invite me!"

"Shut up," he was irritated. "Look, if you aren't willing to help…"

"No no. Just give me…" and he put his hands on his face. "Oh god, I wish I could've seen their reaction!"

"Not pleasant."

"No," and the laughter ebbed a bit. "No…so, what sort of advice do you need?"

He cleared his throat. "Well, Mycroft and I were thinking…it's probably best at this juncture to ask out women we already know. You know, sort of a practice round. Since it's been so long for either of us," and he sat back and crossed his legs.

"Whom among our acquaintance would be daft enough to go on a date with you?"

"Just so."

John rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I dunno, Sherlock…this seems like an abysmally bad idea."

"Well…there are only a few women I personally know who would qualify as datable, anyway."

John's eyebrows rose in question.

"There's Sally Donovan, but she hates me."

"Yeah. That's an impossibly bad idea."

"There's Janine…but she hates me as well…"

"Well, she might do, if you offer her something in return."

"There's the Woman."

"No," John simply said. "No way, no."

Sherlock smiled. "There _is_ Molly."

"I knew you'd mention Molly," and John shook his head and lowered his gaze.

"How did you know I'd mention Molly?"

"Well, she is the obvious choice, isn't she?"

"How do you figure?"

"Oh come _on_ Sherlock! She's been an indispensable friend to you for ages! She is closer to you than anyone, really, save myself. She isn't bad on the eyes…quite lovely, actually…she is unattached, and, oh yeah. She's been crushing on you forever. There's that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If she knew me as well as you claimed, she would not be _crushing_ on me. Where do you get these pat phrases?"

"Why not? Bad self image problems, Sherlock?"

He cleared his throat and got up.

"No…" John began. "No…not really…."

"What?" Sherlock called from the kitchen. Why did he plant that suggestive seed in John's mind? He was always, _always_ doing things like that.

And before he knew it, he was turning into the doctor…"John! Where did you come from?"

"The sitting room, Sherlock," but he was looking at him with a hint of concern.

"Stop looking at me like that," and he went to retrieve his violin.

"Sherlock? Is that why you never asked a woman out? Because you didn't think that anyone could…like you in that way?"

"How about I pen a message to you and send it in study hall?"

"I'm serious!"

"As am I! Look. I made a slip. I am not stunted in any emotional manner. I'm simply, as I said, out of practice. I need to win this bet so that Mycroft can cease his incessant superiority in all things, and we can go on as before and I can be left alone…my sexuality is all too often called into question. It's tiresome, and I wish to end it," he finished, and began to play his violin.

"Alright, alright," John held his hands up in mock surrender. "Look…if you want to ask Molly Hooper out, I'm not going to stop you…but only after you hear me out."

Sherlock put his violin down and sighed, then raised his gaze to John. "Yes?"

"Molly cares about you. A lot. She cares so much that she has risked almost everything for you. If you ask her out, if you give her false hope that anything romantic could happen between the two of you, I swear to god Sherlock Holmes, I'll kill you myself. Ask her out, but tell her the truth. Tell her that you are trying to win a bet…"

"But that defeats the purpose, doesn't it?'

"Which is?"

"To _prove_ that Mycroft is wrong, and that I am heterosexual. I don't give one whit whether anyone else believes me, or what they think about my sexuality. But Mycroft. He's so impossibly smug. It's really not to be borne. He needs to be silenced on the matter," Sherlock sat once more.

"Fine. Fine! Ask her out! But so help me god…"

"I know I know," he replied, rolling his eyes. "You'll kill me with your bare hands."

John's breath slowly sifted through his teeth. "That's right, Sherlock. And I hope that you don't forget it," and with that, he left.

* * *

><p>Molly Hooper was a very smart woman. Smarter than most, actually. She was accomplished in her field, held some respect from her peers and even her mentors. She was pretty, though not in the most traditional of senses; a bit waif-ish, bit small…but her soft expression and her awkwardness made up for anything anyone could deem lacking in spades.<p>

She had a very good sense of humor, though occasionally off-kilter.

She had opinions which she was more than capable of expressing, though sometimes accompanied by a stammer.

She was faithful and true to a fault, the kindest, most gentle of people one could ever hope to meet. This was why two things couldn't reconcile these last traits which were so utterly Molly:

Thing one: she broke up with her perfectly nice and respectable fiancee, Tom.

Thing two: she seemed to have an undiminished and unaccountable thing for Sherlock Holmes.

Neither of these things jived with what people generally thought of when they reflected on Molly Hooper.

Many thought it was just a phase…a school girl crush run amok; one which destroyed her desirable relationship with Tom.

Many thought it was a character defect…she must be a glutton for punishment to be hopelessly attracted to such a great git.

Some even thought that she was mentally unhinged…no one in their right mind would continue to fantasize about such a jerk as one Sherlock Holmes. No one would break up with Tom for such a feeble reason.

And no one, for the life of them, could recall what that reason was.

Some had even speculated that she was being paid by the detective to be friendly to him. Though Molly's wardrobe was atrocious, and the detective wealthy, so that theory soon fell to the wayside.

But whatever it was, people at St. Bart's often speculated about these perplexing goings-on.

It happened that one day, one day following Molly's epiphany that she was, in fact, worth more than what the detective offered her (this had begun following his shocking return from the "dead"), that she was in the lab at Bart's, mixing chemicals in an effort to ascertain the presence of a particular acid in a homicide case.

"Hello, Molly," waltzed in the detective, Belstaff swinging, curls bouncing, teeth sparkling in his over wide smile.

Hmm…must be something particular for him to put on such a show. "Hi Sherlock."

"So…what are you working on?"

"Why?"

"Because. I'm curious."

"Why." And now she looked at him. He had an odd look about his face…somewhat confident, but something else…

"Because, we share similar taste in our interests."

"Do we?" and she turned back to the work.

"Indeed, yes," he cleared his throat. "In fact, I have been ruminating lately on just how much we have in common, Molly…and how much I actually like you."

Oh no. "Ok?"

"Right. And I have come to the conclusion that there are precious few people among my acquaintance whom I would care to spend time with apart from you," he paused. "And John."

"Uh-huh," now she was looking at him fully. He was nervous, she could tell. His brow was furrowed ever so slightly.

"So, the logical course of events…"

Oh my god.

"…all things considered…"

Molly put the instrument down and took hold of the table.

"…would suggest that I take you to dinner," he finished.

And Molly Hooper swayed a touch, and sat down on the stool…

She closed her eyes.

"Fuck off, Sherlock."


End file.
